***

Every appointment
points to me,
me, standing on
the sand of words,
the sea ahead
is calling
and only blood
is destined to get
reach the line
between the sea and shore -
the red will be washed
off the down and ground
I am standing on,
no move is here to
take its part -
Even looking down can’t find
it’s going, target’s seen
and known, but seaed
out his owner,
who points t’ a resort
rehearsed to ‘ve saved its -
builder? creator? occupant? prisoner?
These words are seen in front
of it, that’s standing
on the shore
with bleeding feet and
words-to-be-washed-off-
does it feel pain?
The pain won’t touch
its body
for everything that hasn’t
got a name
can’t be here on a life
priority -    
the statue is standing
on the shore
it seems forgotten and
so old with all the
sand and stones
around
with all the blood
that someone has
here lost  -
Where this someone
the statue points to
the sea of red, not blue
there is a path in front
of it that leads its
way t’ a imaginary
moving stream-
the sea only dreams of moving,
creating waves and sharping
stones
and everyone who gets to
be there, at first’s confused
by its hard mode -
the goal is always one,
to get into the sea and fight it
there is nothing on the line of the horizon
so one just stands and only
thinks on the shore
of sand and stones -
I see the man,
there’s always a new-comer
on the beach
he’s trying to fulfill
his task, to swim across
the sea -
his feet are bleeding,
but he walks
and right beside he sees
a statue, smiles
with a thought of
uselessness of its existence -
he makes his way a few
steps further, decides
to take a rest a bit,
looks down and sees his feet are
bleeding, somehow
vaguely feels
that soon he will become
that standing-a-few-feet-behind it.